When you have said this, the rays will turn toward you; look into their center. When you do this, you will see a young god, comely, with fiery hair, in a white tunic and a scarlet cloak, wearing a fiery crown.

After all the abstraction — aeons, elements, names of power — the god arrives as a face. He is young and comely, with fiery hair, in a white tunic and scarlet cloak, a fiery crown on his head: not a blaze or a void but a person, dressed, with a color scheme. This is the sun as a beautiful youth — Helios, Mithras, the Kore Kosmou's radiant boy — and the precision of the wardrobe (white and scarlet, the exact reds and whites of dawn) is the vision at its most concrete. The instruction that gets him there is quietly astonishing: look into the center of the rays (éside autôn méson). The initiate is told to stare into the middle of the light, and in that blind bright center a form resolves. The rite has understood something real about ecstatic seeing — that the figure appears not beside the glare but inside it, at the heart of the dazzle, once you dare to look straight in.